Mad Max and the Road of Fury
by Littlemann
Summary: A weird version of "Fury Road" that is: 1. Entirely from Max's POV, and 2. A crossover with the universe of Harry Potter. Basically, Mad Max with wizards (of a very specific kind). The plot will /eventually/ follow that of Fury Road, but for now it's in original backstory territory, to explain how the whole wizard thing shakes up the Wasteland you know. Thanks for reading!
1. Chapter 1

People don't know what year it is anymore. It was the little things like that that went first; the things we can't feel, that can't hurt us. There aren't years anymore. There are days. Hard, hard days. One after another, like grains of sand down your throat, in your eyes.

The Muggles are gone, too. We saw them as little.

And here I stand, a god on a ruined planet, surrounded and pursued by madder gods.

Or perhaps I am the mad one.

My name is Max. My world is fire and blood. Once, I was a Road Wizard; the last bastion of protection for the few scattered Muggles I knew in a compound in the middle of the desert, in a time before everything was desert. Among them was a woman who became my wife, and I had a child with her. They were both non-magical.

Everyone I knew there has been killed in the name of wizard purification, by Lord Humungous: a titan obsessed with the Voldemort legends of old.

Old stories like those are little things. Stories like mine. Lost in the winds of endless pain; not forgotten, but perverted by fanatics. I killed Humungous, but giving into vengeance is like watering the desert. And now here I am, nothing left, carving a disappearing trail as my hair turns grayer and my mind grows weaker. Soon it'll fail to hold back the voices in my head; the ghosts of those I could not save.

And listen…Here they come again.


	2. Chapter 2

My ears are getting duller, and so is my head. Still, I don't need either to know they are on their way. I have a heightened sense of dread. I can feel the Desentors coming from miles away.

I straddle my broom and set off, feeling the hair on the back of my neck pick up as I go. I cannot tell what is louder: the whooshing of the wind past my face, or the sounds of screaming in my head. I press on, but there's only so much an old broom can do. All the old craftsmen died off in the Wizard Wars; we make do with what we have, what we can find in old homes, on bleeding bodies. I am somewhat glad to not hear the low hisses of my pursuers, or the eerie way the sand shifts below them. Sometimes I hear it in my sleep. The sound plays over a reel of the things I've seen and done.

There is no denying it: they will catch me, and they will consume me. They have been chasing me for two days now across the harshest terrain. I do not know why, but it is inevitable, as it always has been. Pain, that is. Followed by death.

My ride goes slower and slower and shakes more and more. She was made for short-term pursuit, not an extended escape. Soon she'll fall below me. I cannot say what makes a broom go fast, but if it is will then I understand why she fails me now.

She stirs in a way I'm not used to, jerking left and right. But I keep her on course, for now.

I am chased for another three days, nonstop. I have been chased by many things for many years, but not like this. They're not giving up this time. There is only so much a man can take. So much a broom can take. One of us brings us straight into dry powder. It fills my lungs, and I want with everything I am to just stop. But I can't.

As I dig my way out of the other side of the dune, I know I cannot look behind me. I feel that familiar misery licking my spine. It should feel unnatural, I know, but to me it only unlocks what is already there.

I do not know for how long I crawl in the sand, but I'm grasping out in front of me, pulling my peeling fingernails into the dirt, and pulling it back in.

I catch an ankle, which swings back kicks me in the head. Everything goes white, and then black.


	3. Chapter 3

Their little sprog coughed up thick, dark blood fused with sand.

"Max," she called.

He came running. "Hmm?"

She pointed to their sprog's hand. "The red mud," she said. "Again."

Max closed his eyes. He sat down and rubbed her back. The sprog was still sleeping. "I think..."

She looked at him, deeply. "I know what you think, Max." She ran her tired, dry eyes over their little sprog. She saw its messy, curly, black hair. Its mouth, still echoing playful snarls. Its nimble little fingers. Always getting into trouble, those little fingers. Always playing music. Lately, she could sometimes hear music in the air, in the sand...but it was always nothing. "I think it, too."

Max nodded. Everything he thought, she thought, and everything she felt, he felt.

"But we can't."

Max looked down at their child. At how lively it had been.

"I won't kill anybody."

"I will," he said, a little too quickly, a little too desperately.

"Max-"

"I have before."

"You've killed criminals, raiders, ravagers. This is different."

"I can do it."

"I know you can." She looked at their little sprog, at what it was to them, to their world, to the wasteland. It had been their only hope, their only good sound. It could come back, but what would it think? What would it be? "But could our sprog?"

Max looked at her.

"Our decision." She placed a hand on his shoulder and began rubbing it. "Our guilt. But it still has to be the one to..."

Max looked back at their sprog. He nodded.

"And...what would we use, even if we did?"

"Something of value."

She actually laughed. "Look around you, Max! There isn't anything here that we value besides each other!"

"Actually," he said. He smiled and began looking around the room.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

He stood up. "There!" He pointed to his jacked in the corner and walked over to it. He took something out and showed it to her.

"What's..."

Max began to crank the little brass device. A small, fragile noise came out. Like nothing she had ever heard before. As he continued to crank, more of these noises came out, until they formed a melody.

"Where did you get this?"

"Not me." He pointed to the sprog. He was beaming proudly. "Saw it playing with it."

"I guess...if we decided to, I mean...we could use that."

"You think so?"

"Slow down, Max. We still haven't-"

"HE'S COMING!" shouted someone outside.

Max grabbed the music box out of her hand and quickly buried it. She watched with awe. She hadn't seen him care about an object like that in a long time. They heard more shouts from outside.

"He's coming back!"

"He's coming back 'round, everyone!"

"Muggles, to the tunnel!"

Max turned to her. "Take the sprog and go to the tunnel."

She picked him up. "Come with us!"

Max shook his head. "They won't believe that nobody lives here."

She nodded and left with their sprog.

Pappagallo charged into the tent with a rifle. "Lord Humungous is back, Max."

"Go with the rest of them."

"Every time you tell me that, I tell you that it'll never happen."

"They'll kill y-"

" _MUGGLES!_ " came a voice over a loudspeaker.

Max grabbed his shotgun. "Go."

"It's my funeral, Max. But if anyone asks, I'm a wizard, too."

Max stared him down for a moment before shrugging and walking outside the tent.


End file.
